"Heart Land hail from New Hope, PA. It's a liminal place, halfway between everything, where all the lines blur and where 'things' aren't always what they 'seem.' I remember one autumn evening a quarter-century ago, when New Hope first got under my skin. In that twilight moment, legendary psychedelic LP collector Veronica Breth (then still known as 'Gregg') let me in on her little secret: 'It's better to sell 100 records at $150.00 apiece,' she whispered in her kiss-of-the-spider-woman purr, 'than it is to sell 1000 records at $15.00 each...' I don't know if it was the ginseng wine, or the unbearable straightness of her long blonde hair, or the way s/he French-inhaled her clove cigarette, but the whole conversation made me a little light-headed. At that time, the notion struck me as elitist to the point of vampirism, but I'll be goddamned if her words aren't truer now than when s/he uttered them. What with the internet both hipping everybody to everything and making it all available at any time, rarity itself is as rare as a day in June (as they say). Which brings me back to Heart Land's self-titled LP on Tequila Sunrise Records, one in a series of on-going collaborative co-releases, this one with Cream of Turner Records. It's a limited edition of 200, all with hand-made library-binder style covers, and very sharp-looking indeed. But not only is every sleeve different and unique, but every record is different, too -- at least, that's how it sounds! What do I know? Every time I play it, it sounds different. Seriously. All I know is that the guys from Heart Land burrowed into the outside-psychedelic-trance-noise-improv badger-hole like a dachshund (albeit one with an un-German sense of humor) and came back with a mash-up of every track on the NWW want-list plus a few imaginary tracks mixed in (only it turns out none were really imaginary after all, if you get my 'drift'). Are these songs 30 seconds long, or are they whole sides? Are they soundtracks for unseen cinema? Who can say? I cannot answer these questions, I can only raise them. Heart Land's inspired throb is a true rarity, sand thrown into the gears of the reality studio machine, and you don't have to be a Swiss collector to afford it. Yet. Listen, wonder, and ride a white dove, luv!" -- Carlos Ramirez, San Tanco, Puerto Rico

"The sun plays tricks on the eyes when the atmosphere's just right, with fata morganas like the Crocker Mountains or the Flying Dutchman, or with sun dogs like the ones that dazzled and disoriented Robert Falcon Scott. Sunlore is like that. As soon as you think you've got a bead on what they are, they just shimmer away from you. Sunlore falls through the cracks. The LP kicks off familiarly enough, sounding like Sun Ra playing 'Bron-Y-Aur Stomp' on a crunchy rocksichord, and then it lurches, keyboard-first, into a landscape of trailing moans and the distant clatter of ghost bongos ... parlor pianos playing melodies by Samuel Beckett ... a long parabolic samsara through some sort of hideously beautiful Sheela na Gig portal into a world lit by a black sun ... and then back out again to where you started from ... with all the fried elasticity of the first Amon Düül record, only a REALLY solipsistic version of it ... and ... wait ... on closer inspection, that ain't Uschi Obermaier out there shaking maracas in the shadow of the Berlin Wall ... it's actually your own pineal gland, vibrating? take that, Stasi bitches! So there you go. You can draw a set of references to similar sonic spacery from Shock Records' early days, Skullflower, Dead-fucking-C, New Blockaders, the aural magick of RRR or even Red Rhino records. However far into the name-check bush you want to go on walkabout, you'll still find an empty bag of clues at the end of the moebius strip. All I can tell you about Sunlore is that they come from southeastern Pennsylvania, one of the guys works down at the airport like Little Johnny Jewel, and they have some sort of affiliation with the equally uncategorizable Heart Land. And, like Heart Land, Sunlore's self-titled LP is available on Tequila Sunrise Records, one in a series of on-going collaborative co-releases with Cream of Turner Productions. It's a limited edition of 200, all with hand-made sleeves. Each sleeve, it should be mentioned, is an individual work of art involving spray paint, ball-bearings(?) and the alchemical element of fire."

"Marco Panella's layered guitar landscapes mix American primitive acoustica with Nashville telecasters, dissonant jazz and straight rock. On Eastern Landscapes, eight self-assured but tonally unpredictable songs serve as the base for studio overdubs and guitar textures. Written and recorded over two years (2008-2010), the songs on Eastern Landscapes draw from the wells of British and American folk forms, classic rock, and even modal jazz to create a sound that's deeply rooted, satisfying, and somewhat elusive."

LP version. Limited edition of 960. Domestically-pressed vinyl, housed in a European manufactured hard board inner-sleeve slipped inside a matte board jacket with j-card style obi. Jack Rose's full-length Dr. Ragtime And His Pals, was originally issued on CD by Tequila Sunrise in April 2008. "The Appalachian Trail runs 2175 miles south from Mount Katahdin in Maine to Springer Mountain in Georgia, though there are those who want to stretch it further, into Alabama, because the mountains go there. Why not extend it? Trails are made for that. But there's another Appalachian Trail, too -- one that goes through time, extending from unfinished studios in Williamsburg, NY, winding down the grooves of ancient 78s to the 1920s or even earlier, past Stephen Foster's wet dream to a place beyond the compass of change. If you're hiking on *that* trail, you're likely to run into a lot of post-grad Parsifals with inscrutable hair and de-tuned banjos -- these days, you can't swing a cat around without hitting one! But if you're lucky, you might stumble across a clearing somewhere south of Lily Dale, where revolutionists stop for orangeade and Dr. Ragtime hangs out with his pals. If you ask him politely, he might offer you a taste of his elixir -- made from codeine, sarsaparilla, and goat-gland extract -- guaranteed to restore memories that never were. And if you're quiet, he might let you stay and listen to the music: Ethiopian novelties, characteristic marches and parlor favorites -- bittersweet slices of Methodist pie, familiar tunes, at least in those sections where the square dance has not yet been supplanted by the fox-trot. And if you have a couple of dimes to rub together in your pocket, you'll want to purchase his newest, electrically-recorded phonograph recording, entitled Doctor Ragtime And His Pals. The Doctor, who hitherto has recorded only on his own, is joined here by Micah Blue Smaldone (who has been compared to both Tiny Tim and Kierkegaard), Glenn Jones (of Cul de Sac, last seen around these parts urging college students to contemplate the prospect of their own death on a balmy September evening), Michael Gangloff (late of Pelt and the Black Twig Pickers), Nathan Bowles (also of the Black Twig Pickers as well as the Spiral Joy Band) and the mysterious Harmonica Dan (from Pennsauken, New Jersey by way of ethereal caminos)." --Charles Fourier, Tequila Sunrise Records

Domestic version of Jack Rose's new full length, Dr. Ragtime And His Pals, coupled with a reissue of last year's self-titled CD/LP housed in a custom designed and fabricated off-set printed card cover with j-card style obi (there is also a jewel case version on the UK label Beautiful Happiness). Limited edition of 1000. "The Appalachian Trail runs 2175 miles south from Mount Katahdin in Maine to Springer Mountain in Georgia, though there are those who want to stretch it further, into Alabama, because the mountains go there. Why not extend it? Trails are made for that. But there's another Appalachian Trail, too -- one that goes through time, extending from unfinished studios in Williamsburg, NY, winding down the grooves of ancient 78s to the 1920s or even earlier, past Stephen Foster's wet dream to a place beyond the compass of change. If you're hiking on *that* trail, you're likely to run into a lot of post-grad Parsifals with inscrutable hair and de-tuned banjos -- these days, you can't swing a cat around without hitting one! But if you're lucky, you might stumble across a clearing somewhere south of Lily Dale, where revolutionists stop for orangeade and Dr. Ragtime hangs out with his pals. If you ask him politely, he might offer you a taste of his elixir -- made from codeine, sarsaparilla, and goat-gland extract -- guaranteed to restore memories that never were. And if you're quiet, he might let you stay and listen to the music: Ethiopian novelties, characteristic marches and parlor favorites -- bittersweet slices of Methodist pie, familiar tunes, at least in those sections where the square dance has not yet been supplanted by the fox-trot. And if you have a couple of dimes to rub together in your pocket, you'll want to purchase his newest, electrically-recorded phonograph recording, entitled Doctor Ragtime And His Pals. The Doctor, who hitherto has recorded only on his own, is joined here by Micah Blue Smaldone (who has been compared to both Tiny Tim and Kierkegaard), Glenn Jones (of Cul de Sac, last seen around these parts urging college students to contemplate the prospect of their own death on a balmy September evening), Michael Gangloff (late of Pelt and the Black Twig Pickers), Nathan Bowles (also of the Black Twig Pickers as well as the Spiral Joy Band) and the mysterious Harmonica Dan (from Pennsauken, New Jersey by way of ethereal caminos). This release is conjoined with a recording by Jack Rose, the Mike Morgan of the American minimalist neo-primitive sub-underground. This recording, entitled Jack Rose -- previously available to the buying public only in severely limited forms -- is here presented as a bonus to the consumer and perhaps as an act of folly for the producer." -- Charles Fourier, Tequila Sunrise Records

"For those of you already living a couple of years ahead of the rest of us, you will know that this will be the fifth full length by this band, and that it was originally released in 2006 on their own white elephant imprint. It's actually more like a solo outing by LSDM front-man Shinsuke Michishita (on voice, guitar, bass and percussion), accompanied on two tracks by legendary drummer Ikuro Takahashi (High Rise, Fushitsusha, Tamio Shiraishi, Kosokuya, Che-Shizu, Maher Shalal Hash Baz, Nagisa Ni Te, etc). most of the songs here are intimate, in-your-inner-ear ballads, hypnagogic and melancholic, achy hangovers from the third Velvets LP -- sorrowful birds on the last tree in the universe, thinking themselves into being, then forgetting themselves, then remembering again. except for the title track, that is -- an 8-minute doppler-effect trance that gets you wasted on polonium 210, sets the dials of the Kabbalah for the heart of the sun, and clicks 'send.'"

500, 180 gram vinyl, pressed at Record Technology inc. with an 8-page booklet in full color 'old-style/tip-on jacket' printed at Stoughton printing. "Micah Blue's got an original voice, reedy and spare, and he's a virtuoso ragtime finger-picker, too. His songs are charming, antique ditties -- austere Tin-Pan Alley tunes with lyrics by Soren Kierkegaard. Like a single bright light, his music illuminates much while also casting a lot of sharp shadows, lovely, dark and deep. When he plays live, he tenses up his whole body -- tenser than you'd expect for a folk musician, like he might snap the strings, or snap the neck of his guitar, or just snap. But there's not a trace of irony in his music or in his performance, and I guess that's the Yankee in him. See, it gets cold at night up there in Maine, where he's from, and when you got the blank eye of god bearing down on you, and you got the Jukes and the Kallikacks next door getting high on Freon or something, it just makes a man think seriously about where he fits in. Willem de Kooning, gazing up at the star-spangled sky over Black Mountain in the forties, remarked 'the universe gives me the creeps,' and I imagine Micah might agree. Human consciousness may be a makeshift contraption held together with bailing wire and duct tape, but it will have to suffice. And it may well be true that regret and loss are inescapable human conditions (if you marry you will regret it, and if you don't marry you'll regret that too). But it is also true that music is a bulwark against such notions of human frailty, and Micah Blue's music does more than suffice. It offers balm and succor to a weary soul." -- John Jacob Niles